


Blake's 7 Ficlets

by emmaliza



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:48:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 5,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25048663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: What it says on the tin, really.4: "If you wanted an excuse to fondle my arse, you could have just asked."5: "You don't have to be afraid of me. The war is over. What reason would I have to harm you?" "Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something."6: Of course he isn’t lucky enough to die quickly.7: Tarrant's life is one of plasma bullets and laserfire; to him, knives belong on the dinner table. The feel of a blade cutting open his skin is a novelty to him, one that excites and, yes, frightens him.8: He knows it's pointless trying to impress Avon. The man is pathologically unimpressed by everything. But he's never been one to baulk at a challenge.9: He has been doing the same thing for weeks, indulging the taste of Blake's skin, his sweat, his body strong and sure and warm beneath the wires and medications. A drug, a hallucination. Avon finds he is becoming an addict.10: Travis does not fit in well with the space of her private chambers.11: Dayna is not an especially graceful loser. Lucky for him, then, that she loses so rarely.12: “I wish they'd just get it over with.” "Speak for yourself, I'm not too eager to see what's on the other side.”
Relationships: Dayna Mellanby/Del Tarrant, Kerr Avon/Del Tarrant, Kerr Avon/Roj Blake, Kerr Avon/Servalan, Roj Blake/Original Male Character(s), Servalan/Travis, Vila Restal/Del Tarrant
Comments: 18
Kudos: 21





	1. Origins (Blake/OMC, M)

Truth is, it wasn't very special.

Blake doesn't remember it well. Unsurprising. He doesn't even remember the man's name - he should do that, he should have taken the time to find that out, but there's nothing he can do about it now, and so that's just one more thing to feel guilty about with all the others.

He shouldn't have done it at all; it was a moment of human weakness, and curiosity. He doesn't remember the man's name, nor what he was in for, but he remembers what he looked like. Shorter than him. Bald. Slightly on the pudgy side. Deep, dark eyes, drinking Blake in like he was deep and sweet and quenching.

It wasn't like him to go along with it, he never went in for casual sex - but all other sorts of sex he'd ever had, it felt so far away from him now, buried among the deep fog. He just wanted to feel something he knew was real, not the strange haze of memories the Federation broke for him, that he was just putting back together.

Eight months aboard the _London_ was a long time, he thinks most of their fellow prisoners' patience must have worn thin eventually. He and this man found themselves in a supply cupboard, rough and clumsy and hurried. He doesn't remember the details. It was all hands and mouths, teeth grazing where he didn't want them, muffled curses and ashamed whispers.

Afterwards it didn't feel any different. It immediately seemed to join the blur of memories that was everything before his arrest. Blake wasn't sure, and he felt sick with himself for it.

But still, he and this man nodded at each other respectfully, and went their separate ways. He's not sure they ever spoke again. It's not like either of them was expecting anything else.

He might have been one of the men Raiker shot to force him to surrender. Blake doesn't know.


	2. Fidelity (Blake/Avon, G)

"So, you're back are you? No longer about to let yourself be killed on some godforsaken planet just to prove a point?"

Amused, Blake looked up to see his door slide unlocked, because of course Avon knew how to do that effortlessly; it wasn't worth the bother trying to keep him out. "It appears so," he said. "I'm sorry if you're disappointed."

Avon said nothing, taking a step inside with the door sliding closed ostentatiously behind him, his swagger strange and impenetrable. "They were close to leaving you."

"Yes, you said."

"But doing so would have proven me right," Avon carried on, as if he'd never spoken. Blake frowned. Avon was smiling, but he'd never met anyone who could smile as unsettlingly as Avon. "They could never have put up with that, could they? You ought to thank me, Blake. I just saved you your ship."

Blake rolled his eyes. He was in no mood to play mind games. "Do you want something?"

"...Gan is dead.

He flinched. He thought he had coped with that, found some way to expunge the pain, but of course pain doesn't work like that. "Yes, I am aware."

"It could be any of us next."

Blake huffed in irritation. Hadn't they already had this conversation? "What do you want, an apology?" he snapped. "A promise I'll never do it again? You know I can't do that. Not while tyranny has a hold over the galaxy. I know how much you loathe the thought that anything might matter more than you, but I am dedicated to the cause, and causes have a way of getting people killed. If you're not willing to die for me, I understand perfectly, and you have my blessing to leave at any time."

If Avon were to leave though, what would he do? But that wasn't the point. Avon had to be able to leave, had to be here of his own free will, or else - else he was no better than the Federation, seizing its soldiers and using them for purpose, leaving them behind when they were no longer useful. As he left Gan. But Gan knew what he was doing, he was...

After a long stare, one that made Blake feel awfully exposed, Avon started to giggle.

He blinked. "Avon?" Giggling wasn't something he'd ever imagined Avon doing, until now. It was rather cute, actually, but that was neither here nor there. He watched the hand shake as Avon tried to cover his mouth, putting pieces together. "Avon, are you drunk?"

"What?" Avon briefly managed to compose himself. "Come now, Blake, does that sound like me?"

No, it didn't, but Blake had never flattered himself into believing he understood Avon fully. As he watched this giggle fit continue, he didn't really see the humour in the situation. "What did you come here to tell me?" he muttered, not sure Avon could hear him.

"I could never leave you," Avon announces, far too loud, far too blatant, and it's enough to make Blake flinch. He must be drunk. "No more than the rest of them can. God knows I keep trying, but I can't-" he didn't finish that sentence, just started laughing again.

Blake prayed Avon wouldn't remember this in the morning. He could only imagine how the man would fight to prove himself wrong. "I see," he said, remaining as reasonable as possible. "But that doesn't make me-"

"-My leader," Avon finished for him. "Oh, but you are. You always have been, always will be. Rest assured, when I die, it will be because of you."

He recoiled again. He didn't want to have the lives of his friends and colleagues on his conscience (as if he didn't have enough of those). "Maybe so," he said. "But I'm not forcing you to stay here."

"No," said Avon. "You're doing something much worse."


	3. Attack Strategy (Avon/Blake, T)

Avon can always tell when Blake's had a bad idea.

Granted, this is not usually very difficult, since usually when Blake has a bad idea his next step is to announce it to the rest of them and insist they bring it to reality. Unless it is somehow central to his bad idea that they not know about it, which only ever proves it a worse idea.

In any case, Avon likes to think he knows when Blake's had a bad idea before anyone else does, before Blake himself does, at that first nervous bite of the knuckle that tells his idealistic fantasies are running away with him again. He hasn't been proved wrong so far.

However now he's a little late to the show, because Blake is clearly far enough along with his idea, whatever it is, to be bickering with Orac about the execution.

"But could you do it?!"

"Well of course I could do it!" Orac snaps defensively. "Accessing the main computer banks of a fleet of Federation ships is the simplest thing in the universe to me! But I fail to see how this method of attack is anything but crude and inefficient-"

Blake yanks the key out of him and then looks up to see Avon lurking in the doorway. "Ah. Avon." He rubs his chin and then smooths his unruly curls with one hand, presumably trying to seem cool and collected. "I've had an idea."

"Always a reassuring thing to hear," says Avon, snarking at Blake coming as naturally to him as breathing.

Blake ignores him, which must come as naturally to _him_ as breathing. "Since the Liberator's creators turned her against us, you see, I've been wondering of we couldn't do something similar to the Federation. Orac says he's capable. It would be easy to hack into their computer systems and force their cables and wiring to attack them. Turn their own ships again them, without having to leave the safety of the Liberator. I'm sure you'll approve of that."

Indeed, Avon does approve of any plan of Blake's that doesn't involve putting his life directly at risk, although Blake being Blake Avon is sure he'll find a way. And he's not without a sense of poetic justice. Still, neither of those things are what concerns him right now.

As he draws closer, he raises an eyebrow at Blake, who was clearly expecting praise (why he would expect that, Avon has no idea, but then again Blake expects many foolish things). "Are you quite sure a rebel leader is what you were really meant to be?" he asks, which seems to bemuse Blake. "Because having a lot of military men clad in tight black leather pinned down by tentacles of wire suggests a frustrated pornography director, just waiting to come out."

Blake scowls at him. "Don't be ridiculous. I mean this as a defensive measure, nothing more."

_Defensive is the right word for it_ , thinks Avon as Blake slumps over Orac to check maintanence readings that don't need checking. Avon is perfectly sure what's inspired him. No doubt Blake remembers being menaced by the Liberator's inner workings before he summoned Avon to his rescue, and has indulged many a guilty thought of what they might have done to him otherwise before deciding to redirect that energy toward the greater good.

"Well, I certainly don't think it's your worst idea," Avon tells him. "Granted the competition for that title is rather tough. Still, I will have to jot down that you're improving."

If nothing else, he will note _which_ bad ideas seem to intrigue Blake, and file those away for later.


	4. Bullseye (Tarrant/Dayna, T)

"Ow."  
  
"Would you stop sulking?" Dayna comments as she twists the arrowhead lodged in his skin, pulling it out cleanly and making him hiss. "That's what you get for getting in the way while I was aiming my shot. You were lucky I insisted on my 'primitive' bow and arrow, and not something more powerful--"  
  
Tarrant rolls his eyes. Yes, he remembers how they got into this situation. "I was there to provide you with backup. That bow and arrow wouldn't have helped you much if a squad of Federation troops were waiting for us." Dayna presses the healing gel over his wound with a little more force than necessary, making him flinch, but this time he manages not to make a sound. Her fingers delve suspiciously close to the edge of his underwear - he's lucky what he wore is brief enough he didn't have to take them off so she could tend the wound. It's not that he's opposed to the idea of Dayna seeing him naked, per se, but these wouldn't be his ideal circumstances.  
  
"I'm still not convinced you didn't do this on purpose, you know," he teases. "I know how good a shot you are."  
  
"...Really now?" He can hear her grinning. "And why would I want to do a thing like that?"  
  
"I-I'm not sure." He can feel her hand moving upwards though, gently rolling over the swell of his buttocks. "But if you wanted an excuse to fondle my arse, you could have just asked."  
  
Dayna pauses. "Oh, like that would have worked!" Suddenly she sounds genuinely annoyed with him. "You wouldn't sleep with me when commanded to by god-like aliens," she says. "I could tear all my clothes off and stand right in front of you and you still wouldn't make a move."  
  
Tarrant blinks, looking up curiously. Is she still thinking about that? "Hang on, that isn't fair," he protests. "Of course I wasn't going to sleep with you on Ultraworld - under duress, with our friends in danger." Especially not if, as he suspects was the case, it would have been Dayna's first time - granted, romance was a bit of a rare commodity in their line of work, but Tarrant thinks he could try harder than that. He frowns. "What, did you _want_ me to take advantage of the situation?"  
  
Pouting a little, Dayna folds her arms over her chest. "Well, no," she says. "But you didn't have to seem _so_ reluctant."  
  
Tarrant grins. Her disappointment is extremely endearing. "My apologies. I didn't think you would take it personally. Next time aliens take us prisoner, I promise I will seize any chance to ravish you with relish."  
  
Her hands slaps suddenly against his arse, making him gasp again. "Don't get ahead of yourself, pretty boy," she grins at him. "I don't have to patch up this wound I've made."  
  
"Oh, I don't know," Tarrant laughs to himself. "If you want my arse, you'd best keep it in reasonable shape."  
  
She spanks him again. "Oh, should I now?"


	5. Ceasefire (Servalan/Avon, T)

"You don't have to be afraid of me. The war is over. What reason would I have to harm you?"

Avon laughs at her, and she can't help grinning herself. They've never met except briefly, but he knows her better than that. "Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something."

Too true. "Oh well." She resumes pressing feather-light kisses beneath the curve of his ear, scratching across his chest tenderly. "A truce then. To last as long as in our mutual benefit."

Avon's hand grasps bruisingly tight around her forearm, and she knows she's got her claws in him. Good. A man like that is always useful. The war may be over, but the fight never ends.


	6. Endgame (Avon/Blake, T)

Of course he isn’t lucky enough to die quickly. He knows he is dying, men with as many holes in them as he has don’t make it out alive. But before it’s over he must wait, surrounded by the bodies of his crew, mulling over his mistakes. He always did suffer insomnia.

He remains slumped where he was shot, sprawled without dignity across Blake’s prone body. He is getting cold to the touch. _I killed him._ It wouldn’t have made any difference in the end; Blake would have been shot with the rest of them had he only waited a minute. But he didn’t, and so Blake’s death is still his responsibility.

_Your damn mind games. Didn’t I always say you’d get yourself killed?_ Not that he can judge. It’s funny - after all this time alternately afraid and relieved Blake didn’t trust him, it was he who didn’t trust Blake, not really. _I’m sorry, Blake. I should have believed in you. You never would have sold me. You weren’t sensible enough for that._

He wants to say something aloud, but a quiet “Blake…” is all he can get out before his plasma-ridden lungs cut out on him.

So instead he tilts his head upward and messily presses his lips against Blake’s own, in one last desperate request. _Forgive me._

But it’s pointless. Blake is gone, and this cooling corpse cannot forgive anyone for anything. _He has made a fool of me, again,_ and then mercifully everything goes black.


	7. Ancient Weapons (Tarrant/Dayna, M)

"Does this scare you?"  
  
"No," Tarrant replies without thinking about it, swallowing hard as Dayna's blade softly caresses the bulge in this throat. His hands twitch in the contraption holding him hostage; his own belt, wrapped around her bedframe. As bondage goes, it's far from foolproof; he could slip out in seconds if he wanted to, but of course she knows that. She wouldn't be interested in him if she didn't think he could match her.  
  
"Are you sure?" He shivers as the knife drags south, leaving only the faintest of scratches across his chest, not worth bothering the med unit with. Maybe he isn't. Physical pain doesn't frighten him; he's a soldier – he _was_ a soldier – he's been bloodied and bruised more times than he can count.  
  
"I've bled before, Dayna," he reminds her.  
  
"Yeah, but like this?" he gasps as she suddenly slices his skin, just south of his nipple. He can't help but stare as the red begins to well and drip. Perhaps she's right. Tarrant's life is one of plasma bullets and laserfire; to him, knives belong on the dinner table. The feel of a blade cutting open his skin is a novelty to him, one that excites and, yes, frightens him. There's an earthy reality to that sort of violence, not like the distance one feels at the right end of the plasma gun, or a neutron blaster. He feels a pinch of guilt at that thought, but reminds himself it's over now; he's not one of them anymore, and he's not going back.  
  
Dayna knows bombs and guns and god knows what else better than he does, but she also knows _these_ , the sort of weapons he's never seen outside of a museum. She's half a primitive, really, but Tarrant doesn't think that's a bad thing – he's seen enough of high society.  
  
While he's staring her spare arm suddenly snakes around his neck, pulling him into a deep, thorough kiss. Tarrant groans into her mouth. He wanted to do that earlier, but he was waiting until he could catch her off-guard.  
  
"I'm glad you're not scared," she whispers against his lips with a grin, hilt of the blade tapping treacherously against his thigh. "Gives me something to work on."


	8. Flying High (Tarrant/Avon, G)

Tarrant has been on this ship for three weeks and feels like he's about to lose his mind. It wasn't so bad when he first came aboard, after he saved Avon and Dayna's lives through his wits and his ruthlessness – Avon seemed reluctantly grateful for that, enough to trust him, even. Ever since, however, it's been one long series of attempts to prove his worth and position aboard this ship, and having Avon shut him down time after time.

Alright, perhaps he's been a little spoiled for praise in his time, as one of the academy's top graduates and, not to boast, one his instructors apparently didn't mind having to look at for hours at a time. Still, Avon's coldness seems thoroughly undeserved.

It's hardly his fault. He's a pilot, that's what he was meant for, and the fact Liberator's systems are so advanced he barely gets to do any piloting can hardly be blamed on him. And it's not like Avon approaches captaincy with anything like the dedication and purpose it requires – he'd probably be happy to hand over command to someone else if he wasn't too damn proud to admit he doesn't want it.

He knows it's pointless trying to impress Avon. The man is pathologically unimpressed by everything. But he's never been one to baulk at a challenge.

“I hope you had a good reason for waking me in the middle night.”

“Ah, Avon,” he wipes his brow as Avon strides onto the flight deck, clad in a black (of course) dressing gown, seemingly with nothing underneath (not that he's looking). Tarrant gives him his best grin. “Ran into a spot of bother, thought I might need you. But I sorted it out myself, don't worry.” At Avon's raised eyebrow, he leaps upon the chance to elaborate. “Rather large meteor came by, threatened to suck is into it's gravitational pull. Had to pull a few manoeuvres to get out of it. Quite an impressive piece of flying, if I say so myself.”

Alright, perhaps he did realise he could sort that out without having to bother the others - but he thought Avon would like to be informed of what took place on his ship. He thought Avon _ought_ to be informed that his talents are in fact rather useful.

Impassively, Avon peers over his shoulder, observing the readings on the console. “I'm afraid meteors are as common as dust in this part of space,” he says. “Jenna pre-programmed Zen to evade with them months ago.” He chuckles slightly. “But don't worry, I'm sure the ship can easily compensate for your waste of power.”

With that he strides off again, back to bed, presumably. Tarrant stares as he leaves, and is tempted to smash his face against the console. Damn it, what does it _take_?


	9. Ghost in the Machine (Avon/Blake, Cally, G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU from the end of Terminal, where Servalan's base isn't booby trapped and they're stuck there a lot longer.

"I brought you tea."  
  
Avon, half-asleep on the console, springs to alert when he realises he's not alone, only to find it's only Cally, bearing a plastic cup of steaming liquid. He sniffs dubiously at the odd green liquid, then grimaces. "You have a creative definition of the word."  
  
"Nonetheless, you need the nourishment. So drink." Avon sighs. There's no use arguing with Cally when she has her mind set on something. He takes a deep gulp of the foul water that tastes like sick and leaves his mouth dry. Deducing which of the plants on this strange and fake planet are and are not edible has kept them fed a lot longer than if they had only what supplies Servalan left behind for them to rely on, and assuaged Vila's fears of having to resort to cannibalism (no doubt convinced that if it did come to that, he'd be the first on the chopping block), but Avon can only bring himself to be so grateful. Cally gives the terminal Avon was napping on a wary look. "You've been meddling with that computer again, haven't you?"  
  
He keeps his face carefully blank. "It is a valuable source of information," he intones lifelessly, unable to care whether she believes him or not. _How are the repairs coming?_ Blake asked him this time, in between kisses. _Fine. I'm going to get you out of here, I promise,_ Avon lied.  
  
"We've been here almost a month," Cally reminds him, not unkindly, but she can't help the frustration boiling over. "What does that have to teach you that you haven't already learned?"  
  
"Oh, nothing." He has been doing the same thing for weeks, indulging the taste of Blake's skin, his sweat, his body strong and sure and warm beneath the wires and medications. A drug, a hallucination. Avon finds he is becoming an addict. "How are the repairs coming along?"  
  
Cally eyes him in that way that makes him fear she's been lying all along, she really can read his mind, but she lets it go. "The hull should stay together now. However Tarrant says he still needs to adjust the navigational controls, else he'll end up flying us into an asteroid."  
  
Avon nods. When they finally leave this place, he cannot bring this contraption with him. Even if it was physically possible, what reason could he give? "Right. Well, don't let me keep you. You must be tired."  
  
"Avon." Cally's fingers upon his shoulder are gentle, and understanding, and Avon can feel them sear down to his bones. "What's done is done, you cannot change it. There's no point torturing yourself like this."  
  
"Better that than someone else," he murmurs, the memory of Shrinker's laser scalpel pointed toward his pupil quick to surface, a memory that leads so inevitably to that of Anna's cold dead eyes he no longer bothers to fight it.  
  
Cally sighs, still frustrated, but also just terribly sad. "You once told me to keep regret a small part of life."  
  
"I did, didn't I?" That feels a lifetime ago now. Blake always asks him how long it's been, how long before they're ready to fly, to tear down the Federation once and for all. _Not long now, my love,_ Avon whispers things he couldn't or wouldn't tell the real man. _Haven't you learned by now, I always come rescue you in the end?_ "In that case, I would recommend you not regret having not got enough sleep tomorrow. Don't worry about me. I have only a little more work to do."  
  
She frowns, but walks out without another word, perhaps finally giving up on him. Avon smiles faintly at her retreating form, and then returns to the terminal, brushing his fingers softly against its keys.  
  
He has always been better with computers than people. Who could be surprised he would prefer an electronic ghost to a real one?


	10. Vanity (Servalan/Travis, E)

Travis does not fit in well with the space of her private chambers, his leather and gunpowder smoke smell contrasting with the exotic perfume across her skin. The discord amuses her, which is probably the only reason she has him here, in her own personal space.

She lies back across silk sheets, relaxed and content, as Travis grunts with exertion above her. He fucks like a soldier, measured, precise, well-timed, following orders. Not creative, but she has certainly had worse. He has natural advantages his alterations have not touched. He is warm, and solid, and satisfying inside her, and smart enough not to take liberties when they are not welcome.

“Go deeper. Move your hips upward. Like that.”

Her voice remains steady as she commands him, but as he shifts angle as instructed, she lets out a small moan. Inferiors should be given some reward for proper behaviour, but she won't flatter his ego too much. Not that she thinks Travis cares particularly whether she enjoys herself. He does this because it's his duty, not because he wants her. Must make him the only make in the service who doesn't.

The trigger of his gunhand brushes gently against her inner thigh, but she feels no fear. He wouldn't dare use it on her, even if he's tempted – he wouldn't last ten seconds. “Touch me. Get me off,” she murmurs, and it's rather exciting to feel electric wires rub against her sensitive nub.

Travis growls and snarls as he edges toward orgasm, bestial about it. “Supreme Commander – I'm going to–”

“No.” She grazes her nails across his shoulder, a reminder of the knife she always has held at his throat, whether he sees it or not. “I'm not finished with you yet.”

When they are finished he hurriedly cloaks himself in his Federation leathers, while she remains lying on her bed, shamelessly naked. He catches her eye in her vanity. “Am I to assume this never happened?”

She grins into the mirror. “That what never happened?”


	11. Victory (Tarrant/Dayna, M)

Dayna is not an especially graceful loser. Lucky for him, then, that she loses so rarely - at least, that makes him feel better about the burn in his shoulder as she pins his arms behind his back. "You fight too nobly," she comments, amused by his disadvantage. "You could have gotten the better of me if you used your greater height and strength to your advantage."  
  
He laughs, a little breathless. "Well, I'm a gentleman. Don't worry, it's a bad habit I'm meaning to break." He's not sure what she says is true, but perhaps she's just trying to spare his pride. Stranger things have happened.  
  
"Hmm." She murmurs against the nape of his neck and makes him shiver, one hand wrapped around a baton, curling the small of his back. "Not too quickly, I hope. I want to have some fun with my spoils."  
  
Tarrant does his best not to squeak. His fellow cadets always used to entertain each other with tales of Amazon women on exotic planets - he never expected them to be true, at least, not like this. Even now he's not sure if he's more excited or frightened by the idea. "You know, one of these days I'll figure out how exactly you keep all these weapons on your person."  
  
Dayna laughs, brilliantly, in his ear. "Practice, Tarrant, practice."


	12. Death Row (Vila/Tarrant, T)

“I wish they'd just get it over with.”

Vila raises his eyebrows, shuffling pointlessly to try and make his tiny prison mattress the least bit more comfortable. “Speak for yourself,” he says, “I'm not too eager to see what's on the other side.”

Peering through the bars to the grey wall ahead, Tarrant scoffs. Vila frowns. He wants to be offended, but under the circumstances it seems a bit pointless. A second later, Tarrant sighs. “Sorry, that wasn't... Damn.” He shakes the bars, and they wobble, not enough to raise hopes, but enough to be a bit insulting. They didn't even bother putting them in one of the classy jail cells. “What's taking so long? It's not that hard to organise a firing squad.”

 _Would you know?_ Vila wonders. But he doesn't want to ask. Tarrant has a point, but of course, the fact they're here at all is a sign the Federation have something worse than being shot at dawn in mind for them. Vila doesn't want to know what.

He sighs. He doesn't know what happened to the rest of them. Dayna and Soolin, they've probably been done away with already – two girls from the outer edges of the galaxy, not likely on any official records, easily swept under the rug. He flinches. Avon, well, Servalan's probably commandeered him for her own mysterious purposes. Good luck to him. And Blake...

Vila ought to be angry at Tarrant, for what happened to Blake. If it was him who crashed onto Gauda Prime, he would have known better, he would have trusted Blake. But it seems futile now. Being mad won't make Blake (or the rest of them) any less dead. Tarrant was, in his own way, trying to save them all. When isn't he? Anyway, _he_ didn't tell Avon to shoot.

As for why he's still alive, well, if he's lucky, the Federation are trying to prove a point. They want to show they can be merciful, if only their criminals will repent, and they've chosen him because he is the least threat to them. Vila can live with that.

Tarrant though, he's not getting off so lightly. He'll be lucky if he's only shot. They've always liked to make an example of deserters.

A sharp “fuck!” makes Vila jump against the stony wall, and when he looks up he notices a shiver run through his frame before he can force it not to. _He really is a kid, isn't he?_ Vila has always known that, vaguely, but he's never really cared before. Now he does.

Tarrant has always hated feeling helpless. Most of the times he's been an absolute cunt to Vila, it's been because he felt helpless, and took it out on him. If they were just going to shoot him, he could cope with that – knowing him he'd think it was noble somehow – but it's this waiting that's killing him, because nothing makes you feel helpless like waiting for your own death.

(Or worse.)

“Tarrant.” Vila deeply resents how sober he feels. “You won't achieve anything, pacing about like that. Come here.”

From the look on his face, squinting and skeptical, Tarrant doesn't exactly see why he's asking, but he doesn't see why not to either. With an exaggerated sigh he moves over to crouch by Vila's side, letting Vila wind one arm around his shoulders.

“Now, don't you worry,” he murmurs without conviction. “Everything's going to be alright. We'll figure a way out of this. Don't we always, in the end?” He's a career criminal, lying comes easily to him.

Tarrant chuckles, clearly not believing him, but not pulling away from the embrace either. “Never knew you to be an optimist.”

“Yeah well, I've fallen under some bad influences, haven't I?”


End file.
